


and what it all comes down to

by thermocline



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Bisexuality, Brunch - Freeform, Developing Relationship, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Self-Acceptance, i promise this is not a self help book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thermocline/pseuds/thermocline
Summary: “Absolutely not,” Jake answers, surprisingly dignified for being pinned down with a boner at six thirty in the morning. He sits up, gently moving Tom’s hands off of him before things get into the danger zone. “We can deal with my repressed gay feelings later.”(or: Jake gets a grown-up label, and Tom learns the value of honesty.)





	and what it all comes down to

**Author's Note:**

> rome wasn't built in a day, but this fic was written in four. IF YOU OR ANYONE YOU KNOW IS MENTIONED, please turn back now thanks! all relations to persons living or dead is completely coincidental etc etc.
> 
> big ups to fish, sarah, lotts, and hannah for putting up with my absolute BULLSHIT over the past week. this became unwieldy very quickly, and i'm so glad that y'all were here to stick through it. 
> 
> also, shout-out to dylan, who will never read this if i have my way. his gentle support of me falling into this pairing in the painful process of coming out as lesbian has proved invaluable. thanks, dude.
> 
> title is from "hand in my pocket" by alanis morissette.

Before everyone starts calling them a bromance, before they’re joined at the hip for three weeks for press– hell, even before they start shooting, Jake can’t tear his eyes away from Tom.

He’s well aware that he’s being incredibly obvious about it. He snaps a video of Tom looking unamused in his trailer after a long day on set, tosses a hearts filter over it, and tags him for Valentine’s Day. He starts keeping a set of notes on his phone with all the dumb jokes Tom makes on nights they go out drinking, just them with some friends at some upscale rooftop bar. He makes note of restaurants and clothing items that Tom says he likes, just in case there’s room for a surprise.

The point is, he’s fucked up over Marvel’s new golden boy, who happens to be thirteen years his junior, even though he doesn’t feel that far removed from Jake at all. Assuming Tom dates within his age range like a normal person, and keeps boundaries around fucking his co-stars like a normal person, and isn’t ready for a high-profile relationship to be the flashpoint for his bisexuality becoming public, like a normal person, well. Jake doesn’t really have a chance.

Sue him. Jake is really, genuinely captivated by Tom, wants to get under his skin and make him _his_ , in ways he doesn’t quite understand. It’s terrifying to peer over that ledge. So he doesn’t, mostly.

Instead, he does what anyone would do, and acts out about it. He hams it up with late night host after late night host until suddenly, his skin feels too tight, and the act feels less like an act and more like settling for an uncomfortable, disingenuous version of himself that he doesn’t recognize.

He’s gotta find something else to try.

+

A hotel room in London is probably not the best time to gather his courage, but Jake has never planned his emotional life to a T.

“Listen,” Jake says. 

“I’m listening.” Tom seems insistent, but there’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to laugh. 

“I’m serious," Jake urges. He fixes Tom with the most intense glare he can muster. Tom sighs, but gestures for Jake to continue. 

The duvet on the bed is rumpled around them, one of the few signs of life in an otherwise pristine upscale room. Jake’s suitcase is upended somewhere, Tom’s bright ochre-yellow hoodie thrown over the desk chair from last night. Jake definitely hasn’t been sneaking glances at it and smiling at the life it adds to the room. No way. 

Jake takes a deep breath. His throat feels so thick with the heaviness of the thing, and he hasn’t even fucking said it yet. God. He picks at a loose thread on his shirt hem. Tom gets more attentive the longer the silence goes on. At least he seems to get the importance, now. 

“I know,” Jake says slowly, “that I’ve been weird in interviews lately. I’m just - trying to, like, figure this whole thing out, you know?”

_Just say it_. “With us?” Tom asks gently. He seems a little bewildered, searching Jake for clues. It would be cute; this early-twenties tendency to assume everything is about you all the time, that others’ reactions are your responsibility and right to know, except Jake is terrified, like, hasn’t told his sister yet terrified. Instead, he’s confiding in a much younger co-star (paramour? no, that seems wrong) because apparently, passing thirty five does not make you any more of a functional adult who can talk about their feelings. 

“No offense, but no, not about us. About me, at large, and who I am, as a person.”

“As opposed to who you are, as Mysterio,” Tom answers, miming the pushing movement for the green lasers. 

Jake can’t help but smile. The kid just balances him out. “Exactly.” 

“Okay,” Tom says, nodding. “I’m ready.”

“Great, cause I don’t know if I am, honestly.”

“Do you want me to-“ Tom reaches for his hand. He turns Jake’s palm over. Jake, needing an anchor, just grasps back, threading their fingers together.

“Yeah.” The affirmation is a second late, but whatever. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Tom says easily. “So?”

“So,” Jake parrots. He feels a little more even-footed this time. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m really fucking old.”

“Bullshit.” 

“Whatever. All of my friends are already married. And I just - never really settled down. I did one movie about gay cowboys and then convinced myself to usurp the laws of society or whatever.”

Jake inhales, count of five.Tom waits him out. Almost there.

“It’s easy to joke about these things, when you feel certain ways about people. It’s easier to tag a girls-and-boys on to your response, or call someone your husband to ham it up and make people laugh. And you don’t really know why you’re doing it, you know? It just feels illicit, like you’re getting to test drive existing as this thing that you otherwise wouldn’t be allowed to exist as.”

Tom squeezes his hand. “Okay, I think I follow.”

“You could call it coping, I think,” Jake says, quieter. He doesn’t look at Tom. Maybe he’s not quite ready for the reaction, yet. “I think it’s me trying to be honest with myself, and my - queerness? - and not pushing it away.”

“Oh,” Tom says. Jake can sense Tom's pathological need to engulf him in a hug. But Tom can’t just handwave this away as some common millennial experience. Jake’s not quite at that same stage of acceptance. 

“I’m worried that when I say shit like that, especially in such a public space, people can see right through me. I don’t think if I told you, really said hey, I think I’m bi, and I think I might have missed out on three or four significant relationships because people dismiss male affection as bromance— I don’t think it would have the weight to it that I wanted it to have, you know?”

“I do know,” Tom says. “I don’t get it, necessarily. But I know what you mean. Like - joking about something, then worrying it’s gonna lose its meaning. Are you worried that you can’t have people take you seriously without it feeling negative?”

“Yeah,” Jake manages. Having Tom understand it, at least part of it, feels - freeing. “Exactly.”

They’re silent for a moment. Jake watches Tom’s brow furrow as he works through what to say.

“For what it’s worth,” Tom starts, and squirms a little, like the seriousness of the conversation feels claustrophobic. “I, uh-“

Jake looks at him. Tom reaches out, a little jerky, and then hesitantly curls a hand around Jake’s waist, like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to touch. 

“You ‘uh?’”

“Fuck off,” Tom says, but he’s smiling, and then he leans in and kisses Jake, and everything else kind of comes second to that. 

It’s lovely. Tom’s mouth is soft, but he's intentional about it, like he’s pausing to catalog each point of contact, appreciate it before moving to the next. The whole thing is sappier than Jake expected, to be honest. There’s only room for one poetic, head-over-heels man in this relationship, if that's what it turns out to be.

Tom's hand moves to the small of Jake’s lower back, pulling him closer, and then he untangles their fingers and fits his other hand across Jake’s neck, and Jake is already ruined. He tries to give back as good as Tom’s giving it to him, but honestly, it’s too far outside what he ever thought he’d get. It's hard not to be overwhelmed. What Jake does know is that Tom fits under his hands, strong and lithe, and Jake wants him closer, like, yesterday. 

“You asshole,” Jake murmurs, pulling away. “I was telling the whole world how wonderful you are and you didn’t say anything-“

“I didn’t know how to,” Tom laughs, and presses his forehead to Jake’s, running a hand up his side. Jake fights a shiver. God, how embarrassing can he get? “After the one interview you did in London, I just - sat in my room. With my arms crossed. Staring at my screen for like an hour.”

Jake wants to pull him into his lap, so he does. Mostly because he can. “Sounds awfully boring.”

“Whatever,” Tom exhales, and wraps an arm around Jake’s shoulders, and kisses him again. It feels liberating. It feels terrifying. It feels like the easiest thing in the world. 

+

The next morning, Tom is insufferably tired. 

“Up,” Jake orders over the din of the traffic somewhere below them, and is met with a resounding groan. Tom’s weight is heavy across Jake’s chest, his thin undershirt damp from being tangled up with what every single one of Jake’s exes would refer to as _the world’s most effective human furnace_. “Seriously. I’m not gonna be your mom on this one. You are a mature adult with a press tour to do. Go get a shower.”

“Nooo,” Tom moans. It could almost pass for mournful, if it wasn’t so bratty. “Dude, it’s so fucking early.”

“And?”

Tom runs a hand across Jake’s abs, settles it between his hipbones. “And.”

“We do not have time,” Jake says matter of factly. His dick says otherwise. “One of us has to be the adult here.”

“I can top, if that’s what you’re asking,” Tom counters, and Jake shoves him, barking out a surprised laugh. 

“One, holy shit. Two, no. I don’t want to be rushed the first time we do this.”

“Can you just say sex?” Tom props himself up on his elbows, studying Jake intensely. Jake’s face burns. “Would it kill you to be dirty, once in a while? No, hold on. Not even dirty. Would it kill you to be direct?”

“Absolutely not,” Jake answers, surprisingly dignified for being pinned down with a boner at six thirty in the morning. He sits up, gently moving Tom’s hands off of him before things get into the danger zone. “We can deal with my repressed gay feelings later.”

Tom sits up and stares at him. “You were in Brokeback Mountain,” he says, half joking, half in disbelief. 

Jake feels a little tight-chested. “I didn’t know I was bi until after that!”

“Really?” Tom says, and Jake stands, instinctively turning away, and tries to remember how to breathe. “How did you— what?”

Here’s the thing: Jake wouldn’t consider himself to be an idiot. He’s done a lot of academic reading on philosophy, and gender politics, and expressions of affection, and finding enlightenment, or whatever. But even with all that under his belt, learning himself feels impossible. It’s like tunnel vision, all of a sudden - the same situation, all rushing back. A different hotel room. A different man, who he cared about immensely, who he knew was just trying to joke. The same gut-tearingly awful feeling of being stupid, one step behind in figuring it out. 

He doesn’t know, is the thing, how he didn’t know sooner. Feeling like an outsider while going through his twenties and attending party after party and meeting person after person chalked up to a resentful waste of time, now that he looks back on it. It sucks, because Tom’s right, and Heath and Ryan were too, and apparently Jake just won’t ever be ready to face up to it and laugh along. 

“Hey,” Tom calls softly. “I’m sorry.”

Jake blinks, trying to will himself back into the present. “I mean, you’re right.”

“Jake.” Tom steps in front of him, searching Jake’s face for cues. “It wasn’t right of me to say. Seriously. I’m really—"

Jake shrugs. This is not a pajamas kind of conversation. 

“I’m really glad you trusted me with this,” Tom settles on. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his flannel shorts. “I’m sorry for not respecting your space on this.”

“Thank you for apologizing,” Jake chokes out, and tries to make things a little more sincere by dropping a kiss to Tom’s forehead before stepping around him to brush his teeth. 

+

In an indirect effort to make things better, Tom gets extra nice. 

Which Jake would love, if he were still relentlessly pining, and if he was still assuming that Tom just wasn’t going to reciprocate, so that he could keep fucking around. Really go overboard. 

Now, it mostly makes him feel guilty. 

“Hey,” Tom says, breathless, catching up to Jake in the hallway of another open-concept, slightly dystopian media office. The studio is around here somewhere. Weren’t they supposed to have someone escorting them through the gray-and-glass labyrinth of Entertainment Weekly or whatever it is?

(He’s trying to remember the outlet. Really honestly. Everyone is super nice, everywhere they go, but the places are blurring together at this point.)

Jake stops, turning to look at him. Tom’s hair is terrifyingly perfect. He looks cozy, somehow, in tailored plaid pants. He bounces the last few steps to Jake, all the well-contained energy of a ballerina. Can’t ever leave those patterns behind, once they’re trained into your body. 

“What’s up?”

Tom shrugs a shoulder. “Just worried I’m gonna get lost without my favorite sherpa.”

Jake tilts his head, trying to look aloof. “Interesting choice,” he quips, and files away Tom’s hitch of breath in response. That’s for a later time when they’re alone, and maybe also naked. 

“Well, my therapist once said I’m incapable of expressing affection, so I’m trying to find ways to appreciate you that don’t involve getting emotional in the middle of the Buzzfeed offices.”

Ah, that’s where they are. “Sounds legit.”

“I could also tell you how hot you are, if that would help?”

“We are in public,” Jake hisses, and does not grab Tom by the arm like usual to chide him, because that is exactly what he wants here and Jake will not give him the satisfaction of giving in.

  
Tom smiles at him, ducking his head. He speeds up, beelining towards the production assistant at the end of the hall. Jake shamelessly watches his ass as he walks away.

Watching Tom choose how and when to be open is a thrilling privilege. Some people get famous young and generate scandal. Others hone their self-discipline into a weapon, completely separating themselves from their roles and then their public persona, too. It’s got to be exhausting, if the way Tom talks about it is anything to go by. Besides, it’s not like Jake would know: he’s always been in the unlucky third category of stardom where he pathologically needs to be honest and open and everyone has to like him all the time or else he dies.

It’s not the most admirable way to stay in control. 

“Thanks so much for having us,” Tom’s saying warmly to the PA when Jake tunes back in, hands shoved in his pockets as he sticks a few steps behind. “I heard we were getting puppies? I’m very excited about that.”

“I can’t confirm or deny that yet,” the PA answers, and shakes Tom’s hand. She nods at Jake. Jake waves back awkwardly. “But I think you’ll really like what we’ve got anyways.”

“Awesome,” Tom says, and gestures to her to lead the way. “We’ll be in in a second?”

She just shrugs a shoulder and props the door for them. Jake mentally doubles down on his promise to become a runner or a gaffer or something else useful after this acting schtick times out. Or at least add them to his list of truly good-intentioned people who can do no wrong.

Jake turns to Tom. “You good?” 

Tom shrugs, gives him a very obvious once over. “Just wanted to tell you that you look really nice today.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Is that too weird?”

“God, no,” Jake says. He can’t help but smile. “Thank you.”

Tom’s face does something baffling. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, then puts his hands in his pockets. Jake fights not to laugh at the similarity, and then, on second thought, takes his own hands out of his pockets to keep from hyperfocusing on how they’re mirroring each other.

Tom sighs, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Jake,” he says, careful and slow. “Would you like to go to dinner with me at my favorite place tonight?”

Jake’s palms suddenly feel sweaty. “Like a–”

“If you want it to be,” Tom answers quickly, and looks very intently at his own feet. Jake absolutely lights up. Tom must sense it, because he looks back up and grins.

They stand there, smiling at each other like idiots, for a good fifteen seconds before Jake remembers that he didn’t actually answer the question. “God, sorry. Yes. Of course.”

Tom doesn’t seem to mind the stumble. “Great. We’ll head out from the hotel around seven? I can make reservations?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Jake responds, then double-checks their surroundings before pressing a quick kiss to Tom’s lips and sauntering past him into the studio. 

“Okay,” Tom calls after him, a little too high-pitched to be normal. “Cool!”

Jake doesn’t think he stops smiling for the rest of the afternoon.

+

After a six a.m. visit to Radio 1 the next morning, they head for the airport, chasing the sun from London to Los Angeles. They’re the last two left across the pond - Jacob and Zendaya flew back yesterday. Jake’s envious of their beauty sleep right about now. According to the itinerary, they’ll take off at eight a.m. U.K. time and arrive before lunch on the West Coast with the time difference. According to Tom, who needs six hours of sleep per night at risk of going off the rails, they’re not going to survive.

It’s not much of a last day in London, more of a last hour, and before long, Tom’s pressed to his shoulder on the dimly lit jet, fiddling with his iPad as they settle into cruising altitude. 

Jake finally lets himself exhale once they’re above the clouds and not running through the airport to keep to schedule. The cabin is quiet without as much of their usual company. Up front, the publicists are fast asleep, and whatever Jon’s wrestling with on his laptop has him engrossed. 

Tom keeps stealing glances at Jake and then smiling to himself, just like he did in the interview earlier. When Jake finally catches him, he rolls his eyes in return. 

Two hours down, nine to go. 

“Did you have fun last night?” Jake asks quietly. The dull roar of the engine almost cloaks his words. When he turns his head to see if Tom’s looking up at him, his nose brushes Tom’s hair. Jake breathes him in, met with the scent of fresh shampoo and something else earthy and full that he can’t quite recognize. 

“I did,” Tom says. He tucks his hoodie around his hands, crossing his arms against his chest. The air conditioning on the plane is chronically brisk. “Did you like the restaurant I picked?”

“It was fantastic,” Jake says, muffled against Tom’s forehead. And it was; an upscale place that wasn’t uptight, great food and even better atmosphere, big enough to be lively, small enough to be private. 

Jake hadn’t been able to totally relax, what with the vigilance of being a celebrity outside of his own home and all. But Tom was thrilled anyway, pressing Jake to the door of his apartment after they’d returned and kissing him soundly. 

What a small wonder to be cared for; to have Tom implicitly understand the importance of a “normal” date and a half-drunk, giggly makeout. Sometimes Jake realizes how much he missed out on. How odd of a privilege it is to retrograde and experience something you always jealously hoped for. How selfless, for someone to help you be selfish.

How much of a gooey mess he's turned Jake into.

Tom sits bolt upright, reaching for Jake’s hand. “Oh, shit, wait, I gotta tell you something super weird.” 

“Oh?”

“The other night,” Tom says, “When I upset you?”

Jake nods slowly. “I unfortunately remember that. What about it?”

“I think, like— I jumped to that question about you not realizing because Brokeback was one of the first ‘gay movies’ I saw. I just kind of assumed that you also 'got it' by being in it, you know?”

Jake considers it, tangles one of his shaking hands in Tom’s hoodie strings, runs the other through Tom's hair. “No, that makes sense.”

Tom sighs, head bowing forward into Jake's touch. It’s hard for him to talk about this. Jake can see him visibly mustering his courage. “I knew it wasn’t always going to be devastating, like that. But there was something really formative about seeing men be intimate in literally any capacity. “So like, thanks. For that.”

“I’m glad it was important to you,” Jake says. He should definitely be more weirded out about the fact that the guy he kissed a few nights ago is admitting to one of Jake’s movies being a formative part of his sexuality. Presented like this, though, it seems as logical as anything How would Jake have known, since he’d been so caught up in playing that part?

“Sorry,” Tom mutters. “If that’s— I don’t still see you as just that, if that’s what you’re worried-“

“Tom,” Jake interjects, and holds Tom’s face in his hands, because he can, and it’s not like anyone is looking, anyways. “We impersonate other people for a living. I’m not worried about you confusing me with a character.”

“But, like, hero worship— “

“I think you give me way too much shit for this to be considered anything close to hero worship. Am I as cool as you thought I’d be?”

Tom smirks. Jake can feel the muscles of his face move under his hands. “No. You’re a fucking loser.”

“Hey now.” Jake eyes him suspiciously. “I didn’t ask for that kind of feedback, did I?”

Tom turns his face and licks Jake’s palm. Jake jumps back, making a disgusted noise. 

Tom shakes himself out, then seems to sober up for a moment. “Nah. But I really like when you ask me for feedback on stuff.”

“I like asking you,” Jake admits. “You always have something different to say. It's insightful. Keeps me sharp.”

Tom beams. “Thanks. And thanks for valuing my opinion on stuff that much. Even if I don’t really talk about it, I— really love being around you. Talking to you, like this. You’re so crazy smart about this stuff.”

“Sounds like you’re underselling yourself,” Jake says. “But enough of us endlessly complimenting each other. This is gross.”

“Yeah. Let’s never do this again?”

“I wouldn’t say never.”

“Okay, fine,” Tom cedes. He reaches for the iPad, then leans down, rummaging in his bag until he emerges triumphantly with a two-way headphone splitter. “Also, I wanted to try out this whole seduction thing on you.”

Jake doesn’t know how to describe what he does in response, but it’s probably close to a guffaw. “Jesus Christ.” 

“You love it.”

“You’re letting me pick what we watch.”

The eight hours and some change ahead don’t seem so daunting, after that. 

+

(Tom cries at the last episode of _Pitch_ and Jake holds him close. It’s a recent favorite of Jake’s, and he doesn’t blame Tom for wanting more from something cancelled far before its time.

“What the fuck,” Tom groans, as Ginny’s face disappears onscreen and the credits start to roll. “I don’t even like sports. God.”

“I know,” Jake responds, and lets Tom hold him tighter. “What’d you think?”

“I loved it,” Tom murmurs. The A/C whooshes distantly through the darkened cabin of the jet. Jake steals a kiss, then another, and eventually pulls away. Later, he falls asleep with Tom on his chest for the second time this week. 

He’d write to all the networks in the world if it meant this thing between them could get renewed season after season. Metaphorically, of course. A love for all seasons, always evolving, with new things to discover - that’s better than any TV show.)

+

Jake nonchalantly offers to let Tom tag along on this suit fitting for the L.A. red carpet. It’s always nice to have a buffer between the awkward tension of him, his stylist, and a stoic tailor who’s just trying to do their job. 

Through the whole thing, Jake stands awkwardly as he’s measured and turned and asked fit question after fit question, and Tom stays quiet. He watches attentively, catching Jake’s eye and giving him a half smile at some points. Jake knows he isn’t exactly bored with what’s going on. He’s paying attention for a different reason. 

Across the room, the kid sneaks a glance at Jake as he’s facing the mirror, giving feedback on the waist of the pants. Tom's eyes linger on Jake’s shoulder blades, the broad expanse of his chest. 

Jake catches him in the reflection. Tom quickly looks down, pulling out his phone and hanging his head like he got caught with his hand in the candy jar. He looks totally disarmed. Ready to ruin. Jake’s gut burns hot with want and shame. 

The second the fitting is over, Jake asks Tom back to his place. When Tom nods, stepping closer to Jake, there isn’t a hint of that false bravado from earlier. If anything, he looks a little nervous. Jake puts a hand on the small of his back and helps him into the cab. 

+

A lot of the time, Jake’s house in the Hills feels empty. Sure, he has a dog, and his family is over plenty, but the space still echoes, and his bed still gets cold. 

Tom follows him inside, gently closing the door behind them and toeing his shoes off. Jake kicks his off somewhere in the living room, heading towards his bedroom. He’s used to Tom following, and lo and behold, he does. 

About five feet from the door to his room, Jake stops, turning around. His heart surges into his throat. Tom looks so comfortable in Jake’s home. Jake wishes Tom were part of it. Wishes Tom were around more to do everything from making dinner to watching baseball to fucking Jake on the couch like they’re horny teenagers again, which, honestly, feels a little too close to–

“What’s wrong?” Tom crosses the entryway, gets into Jake’s space. Funny, how Tom’s being more of a grown-up than Jake, who has over a decade on him. 

The more he thinks about it, the more guilty he feels. Tom’s so young. He doesn’t deserve Jake’s literal years of baggage, of self-loathing, of falling in love with co-star after co-star and convincing himself it’s just a natural consequence of sticking to them like glue.

“I want you so badly,” Jake admits. It feels like he’s burning up with fever.

Tom guides one of Jake’s hands from his shoulders to his chest, stopping when Jake’s hand settles comfortably in the curve of his waist. He looks down at where their hips are pressed together. “Then have me,” he mumbles, not meeting Jake’s eyes, and tips his chin up to meet Jake in a crush of lips and tongues and teeth. Jake kisses back deeply, eagerly. Tom clings to his shoulders and holds on. 

At some point, Jake thinks, the frequency of letting himself touch another man wasn’t enough anymore. He’d expected it to be unfamiliar, the perfunctory ease of getting a woman off replaced with constant guesswork and over-eager exploration. What he wasn’t prepared for was the upwelling of longing, this deep, aching thing that surges in his chest until he feels like he can’t breathe. He’s angry, he realizes distantly, that he couldn’t do this sooner, couldn’t just ask for what he so clearly needed instead of chasing promisingly anonymous strangers in bars. The intimacy is awkward, sure, but it’s worth it for the joy, the newness of it all. 

“Please,” Tom whispers, and Jake walks them backwards, keeps kissing him, until Tom’s knees hit the edge of his bed. He lays back, tugging Jake by the wrist until he settles in above him, enveloping Tom with the broadness of his body. “Fuck.”

Jake braces himself on his forearm, carding Tom’s hair out of his forehead. His eyes are so fucking bright. Jake kisses his forehead, his cheeks, and then his lips again. Tom squirms, unsettling his weight just slightly, and Jake’s suddenly aware of how Tom’s getting hard, tenting his stupid navy slacks. Arousal overwhelms him like a bucket of ice water. He doesn’t know what to do next, here. He settles for running his free hand over the outline of Tom’s erection. Tom shivers, baring his neck, and Jake bites down. Tom arches up toward the sensation with a gasp.

“What do you want?” Jake mutters against his ear, then pulls back, because Tom’s heart is jackrabbiting at an alarming pace under Jake's fingers. “It’s been a while for me.”

“That’s okay,” Tom says, and reaches up to run his fingers through Jake’s hair. “Fuck, I thought I was gonna be a little less embarrassing about this.”

Jake smiles down at him, and Tom grins back up at him. “You don’t have to be cool. I like you dorky.”

“Good to know,” Tom muses. Jake reaches around to feel him up, squeeze the side of his ass. “Yeah. That. I want that.”

“Have you-“

“Yeah,” Tom answers. His face is scarlet red. “A couple times.”

“Okay,” Jake says, and leans back, pulling his own shirt off. Tom makes a wounded noise in response. “Oh, don’t flatter me, it was in the contract.”

“Thank fucking God it was.” 

Jake chuckles. “Scoot up the bed. There’s lube and condoms in the nightstand.”

Tom wiggles back and forth, all lithe limbs and delicate joints, until his head hits the bottom of the pillows. Then, he strips his shirt off, tossing it to the side. “This good?” 

He’s flushed, laid out half-naked in Jake’s bed. Jake is so fucking hard. “Perfect,” he says, and reaches over to grab his supplies from the nightstand before leaning down to kiss Tom again. It’s perfect, like this, with room to squirm and press against each other as Jake gets a hand inside Tom’s briefs, squeezing his cock before moving to tuck his fingers shallowly into his hole. Tom whines softly, chasing the touch.

“We should-“ Jake manages, circling the pads of his fingers around Tom’s rim. “Pants. Off.”

“Yeah,” Tom agrees. Jake leans back to wrestle with the clasp on his shorts, lifting one knee, then the other to get them off along with his underwear. Tom watches him strip, gaze hungry. He inhales sharply when Jake’s cock bobs hard and angry-red against his stomach. 

“C’mon,” Jake coaxes. The attention is nice, but it’s a little nerve wracking to be stared at like this. Tom seems to get it, pushing his pants and briefs down until his hard-on is exposed, then planting his feet and lifting his hips to get them the rest of the way off. “Fuck, look at you.”

Tom just about preens. Jake kisses him soundly, reaching down to wrap a hand around Tom. His dick is blood-hot, soft skin against Jake’s palm, damp with sweat and precome. Tom closes his eyes, head falling back against the pillows with a whine, and Jake takes that as his cue to start opening Tom up again.

“More,” Tom directs, confident even if his voice is shaking. Jake obliges, scissoring his fingers, and Tom hides his face in Jake’s shoulder. He keeps gasping softly, then abruptly stopping himself from making any noise. Jake could tell him to cut it out, but it seems like a better idea to push him until he forgets to hold back at all.

After a second to re-arrange, Jake kisses down Tom’s chest, leaving a few marks that he knows will be hidden by every shirt in Tom’s wardrobe, but that Tom will feel nonetheless. Tom fists his hands in Jake’s hair. He immediately apologizes for pulling. Jake can’t bring himself to ask Tom to pull _more._

They’ll get there, at some point.

Tom threads his free arm between their bodies. Jake nearly stops breathing when he brushes his knuckles against Jake’s stomach. “Can I?”

“Why are you even asking,” Jake says, laughing breathlessly, but can’t help from cussing under his breath when Tom traces his fingers around the head of Jake’s cock, then moves down to start jacking him off. It feels unspeakably, impossibly hot, to have someone mapping his body without even looking at it. 

He pauses, trying to breathe, then gently pulls his fingers out of Tom. “You good to go?”

“Yeah, but can we— ”

“Can we what?” Jake asks, and is immediately met with Tom flipping him onto his back, as if it’s nothing. Jake watches the muscles in his thighs as he straddles Jake, sitting back and looking his fill. Deliriously, Jake thinks about how fucked up they must both look, hair every which way, flushed and desperate and obvious in what they're doing.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Tom murmurs, running his hands over Jake’s pecs, down his abs. He strokes Jake again, just for a second, and Jake groans. He needs more than just the tease of pressure around his cock. “Sorry,” Tom continues, blushing a deeper red. “I just wanted to, like– appreciate you, I guess?”

Jake’s throat feels thick, all of a sudden. “Tom,” he says weakly.

“I mean it,” Tom adds. “Just like, before you fuck me.”

“If your goal was to make me cry,” Jake starts, then trails off. He grabs awkwardly for Tom’s hand so that he can have another point of contact. 

“No, no! I didn’t mean that, but like, it’s totally cool to cry-”

Jake gives him a lopsided smile. There’s a heavy moment of silence. Everything comes down to this, Jake supposes, heart hammering in his chest. 

The pause is long enough for Tom to look at him, eyebrows drawn. “Hey,” he says softly, running his hand over Jake’s ribs. “Have you done this before?”

Jake hesitates before shaking his head. Tom makes a noise like he’s been punched. He takes a deep breath. “Do you want it to not be a big deal?”

“Please,” Jake answers, aiming for breezy and landing solidly in _choked-up while crying inordinately at an animated movie_ territory. Tom crushes him into a kiss, grinding back against Jake’s dick, pressing a condom into his hand. His skin is so warm in all the places he’s pressed against Jake’s body.

“Can you?” Jake asks, pushing the foil packet back towards him, and Tom scrambles to sit up, tearing open the packet with his teeth and reaching behind him to roll it down onto Jake. The moment of pressure on his dick combined with the twist of Tom’s body is almost too much, but then Tom’s muttering “okay, okay, here we go” to himself, like a total loser, and lining up, and _looking at Jake_ as he sinks down, and all Jake can do is grab onto his hips and let his eyes fall closed for a moment and moan.

He would be embarrassed, except Tom whimpers too, this wet, gutted sound. When Jake looks up, Tom’s breathing like he’s just run three of their stupid treadmill workouts. His dick is an angry red, bobbing against his stomach, and he’s curled in on himself a little, trying to adjust to the stretch. 

“Forgot how good this feels,” Tom pants out, as if it doesn’t tilt Jake’s entire world on axis, and then starts to move. He’s so fucking tight. Jake watches, mesmerized, as his dick sinks into the hot clutch of Tom’s body again, and again, and again.

For something as monumental as this is, Jake isn’t going to last. “Kiss me,” he says, and Tom does, leaning over Jake’s body, grinding forward and back in minute motions that are driving Jake crazy. It’s a sweet kiss, this time around, plush lips against each other, foreheads pressed together. Jake clutches onto Tom’s bicep like a lifeline. He can feel his orgasm building in the bottom of his belly. 

“I can’t,” Jake gasps. It’s too much, Tom over him, around him, close as he can be. The irreversibility of it should be terrifying, but Jake just wishes he could stay like this for hours, reveling in it, chasing the sensation of the intimacy he’s been lying to himself about wanting for years and years.

Tom kisses his forehead, soothing. “It’s okay,” he says, grinding deep, wrapping a hand around his own cock to get himself the rest of the way there. “Just come.”

Jake pushes his hips up, meeting Tom’s pace, and does.

+

(The second time around is much better, he thinks blearily, half-awake as he pushes inside Tom again the next morning. They’re on their sides; Jake’s hand on Tom’s stomach, Tom’s head craned back to kiss Jake. It’s lovely, more coordinated and less overwhelming. Tom comes first, with Jake’s hand around him, and then demands pancakes as they peel away from each other and stumble into the shower.

Jake could get used to it. In the three days before they fly out to New York, despite not having too much free time, he does. Easily.)

+

On the last day of American press, Tom pulls them into a brunch place in Brooklyn with a reputation clearly preceding its capacity. 

The food is good - so good, in fact, that by the time they roll up around nine thirty, almost every table is occupied by hip twenty-somethings who, if Jake’s time in New York is anything to go by, were almost certainly out drinking until two. It’s an impressive pull. The older lesbian couple running the place happily greets their guests, chatting them up before letting them down with the news that unless they’ve got reservations, they’re not getting in for brunch until dinnertime.

Jake unfolds his hands from his lap as the waitress takes their order of appetizers. Between them, there’s a rogue menu, still open to the entree page. Tom is staring expectantly at him. Again. God, did he never learn manners?

“Did you bring me here to make a ‘what’s on the menu’ joke about defining our relationship?”

“Absolutely not,” Tom responds, and grabs the menu for himself. “Of course I did.”

“Hm,” Jake muses, and grabs the menu back. Tom sulks.

“Are you sulking?”

“No,” Tom scoffs, and Jake raises an eyebrow at him. “Man, fuck you.”

“Yeah, fuck me, I guess.”

Their waitress materializes beside the table with a platter of fruit and a yogurt parfait. She glances between them, clearly trying not to laugh. “Hi, sorry to interrupt. Here you go. Were we ready to order?”

“I think so,” Jake answers politely, and Tom puts his face in his hands. “We’ll split the farmer’s breakfast. Turkey sausage, scrambled eggs.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tom mouthing _scrambled? Really?_

“And we’ll add hashbrowns to that. With cheese.”

Tom perks up. He looks legitimately touched.

“Alright,” she says, scribbling. “If that’s it for you, I’ll get that in to the kitchen.”

“That’s fine, thank you,” Tom says, fixing her with his awkward polite customer service smile. Then, after she walks away, he adds, “We have to tip her so fucking well after that. God.”

Jake kicks him under the table. “Whose fault is that?” 

Tom looks scandalized. “Which one of us is older, again?”

In Jake’s book, that doesn’t deserve a response. He settles for reaching for the water pitcher and ignoring Tom. On the other side of the restaurant, someone is celebrating a birthday as the waitstaff serves them a well-frosted cinnamon roll with a frankly precarious amount of candles stuck into the top. Tom turns to watch them, smiling fondly. For a second, Jake’s genuinely worried that he’ll join the chorus. 

Instead, he turns back towards Jake and sets his fork down, looking up at Jake with wide eyes. Jake misses being this young, still holding out hope that things will turn out. “But about the, uh. Relationship thing. You’ll think about it, yeah? And talk it through if you need to?”

“Of course.”

Tom’s shoulders drop. “Good, ‘cause now that we’re done filming, I don’t know if you’ll be able to resist how good I look when I’m wearing glasses.”

“Mmm,” Jake notes, digging into the fruit salad. There’s less than forty-eight hours until they leave for South Korea. Not nearly enough time to ruin Tom in all the new ways that he wants to. “Worried you’ve created a maniac?”

The birthday crew wraps up their song. Tom rolls his eyes and waits for the applause to die out. “No, god. But regardless of what happens, I’m really glad that I could be that person for you. And I’m proud of you for starting to think the whole thing through. Also, for the record, I like you challenging me in other ways just as much as I like you challenging me on treadmills.”

He’s being intentionally vague, what with being in public and all, but Jake still melts at it. “Thank you for doing all this. I know you think old-fashioned romance is stupid, but it, uh. It means a lot.”

Tom reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. “I just want you to be happy, you big mess,” he says simply, and Jake almost starts bawling. What is it about getting involved with Tom that’s turned him into a lovesick puppy?

Jake takes a deep breath, soaking the moment in. Speaking of lovesick puppies, with Tom’s current expression–

“I really care about you,” Jake says, “Even if you look like a stupid puppy dog right now.” He can’t even joke any more. Everything sounds too fond. 

“Learned from the best,” Tom quips, flashing a brilliant grin, and Jake drops his spoon in a magnificent hailstorm of granola pieces clattering onto his plate. 

Tom, _fuck_ him, starts laughing. No one else seems to have noticed the debacle, including their waitress, who’s zipping mimosas across the patio as fast as her legs can carry her. 

They must look ridiculous at this restaurant, dressed up in designer shirts, hiding behind sunglasses and perfectly styled hair. Just two overgrown, egotistical adult men trying to talk through their regular human feelings as Fleetwood Mac blares in the background.

It is, objectively, the most ironic thing Jake can think of. He can’t help it. He starts laughing, too. 

+

When Jake heads to New York after Seoul to start rehearsals – fuck, he’s gonna be back on _Broadway,_ what a change of pace – Tom does, too. He swears it’s just for convenience. There’s a few weeks of downtime before he has to start prepping for the next project, a welcome change of pace from the back-to-back schedule that forced makeup artists to pay extra attention to his under-eye circles. Staying with Jake, he says, just feels like a natural extension of that. 

Instead of church on a Sunday morning, they venture out to SoHo to go shopping, winding down Mercer in baseball caps and sunglasses and hoodies like a truly abysmal superhero disguise, pointing at things they like in the windows as they walk. It’s nice, relaxed. Jake’s too scared to reach for Tom’s hand. One day, it won’t matter to them, or their agents, or whoever else may care. For now, though–

The shop on the other side of the street has its windows papered in pink and red. It’s less of a subtlety and more of a courtesy. A chime on the door tinkles pleasantly as Jake pulls the door open, met by an androgynous but impressively buff person replenishing stock. It’s quiet, save for the tinny indie-pop filtering in over the speakers.

“Hi,” they start to say, and then Jake pulls his sunglasses off, and they stutter a bit, recovering quickly. “What brings you in?”

“Just perusing.” Jake shrugs. The bookshelf on the right looks inviting, with classics like Foucault’s _History of Sexuality_ juxtaposed against romance novels with scantily-clad fantasy heroes on the front. Tom picks up a displayed copy of something to do with essays on male power and deviance. Jake’s loving this already.

“Alright, well, if you need anything, let me know,” the salesperson says, and eyes the pair for a moment before moving to return to their work. 

“Thank you,” Jake answers, plaintive. The implied _you won’t say anything about this, right? Thanks._ hangs in the air of the store. They nod in response. Hard to impress, apparently.

“C’mere,” Tom calls. Once Jake’s within reaching distance, Tom hands him a neatly coiled package of crimson-red rope. 

Jake’s heart almost stops. “Something you’re into?”

Tom shrugs. His blush is obvious around the edges of his sunglasses. “I’ve thought about it.”

“Interesting,” Jake muses, and Tom swats him on the arm before moving on to the next brightly-colored, maybe-vibrating thing on the shelves.

It’s kind of amazing, how up for anything he is. How he pushes forward, despite being chickenshit about having adult conversations.

Which, if one of them has to do it. Might as well.

“I was gonna tell you,” Jake says. He picks up a pair of handcuffs, then immediately puts them down. Not the right vibe, for this. No pun intended. “I was thinking about coming out to my sister?”

Tom spins around so fast that Jake’s surprised he doesn’t send everything within a five-foot vicinity flying. “Dude. That’s so fucking awesome.”

Jake smiles helplessly. 

“No, like - God, let me try this again.” Tom shakes his head emphatically, glancing at the box he’s still holding. “Let me put the vibrator or whatever this is down, before I say anything. Hold on.”

Then, because he’s a menace, he shouts over at the employee on the other side of the store. “Hey, can you turn around and ignore us for like eight seconds?”

They give him a thumbs up, ducking below the check-out counter to grab something. Tom steps into Jake’s space, puts his hands on Jake’s waist. His words tumble out in a rush. “I am so fucking proud of you, and I think that’s a great idea, and if Maggie isn’t cool about it, come adopt my family instead.”

“I love you,” Jake says softly, and Tom reaches up to kiss him, just for a second. It feels like punctuation to a sentence Jake started eons ago.

“I love you too,” Tom echoes, and steps away, tugging Jake’s sweater back into place before raising his voice again. “All clear! Thanks!”

“No problem!” 

Jake lowers his voice. “If you wanna grab the rope, we can test it out tonight after rehearsal? I think I still have some osmotic boy scout knowledge in there somewhere.”

Tom’s through checkout and back at his side in no time. If this is how excited he gets over the promise of inevitably half-assed bondage, Jake can’t wait for all the nights they’ll get together.

**Author's Note:**

> eta: edited for syntax on july 10, 2019. it was going to bother me if i didn't.
> 
> thanks for reading! <3


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